The poems of John G. C. Brainard A new and authentic collection, with an original memoir of his life |
 |
 |
THE WIDOWER. |
 | The poems of John G. C. Brainard |  |
THE WIDOWER.
O doth it walk—that spirit bright and pure
And may it disembodied, ever come
Back to this earth? I do not, dare not hope,
A reappearance of that kindest eye,
Or of that smoothest cheek or sweetest voice,—
But can she see my tears, when I, alone,
Weep by her grave? and may she leave the throng
Where angels minister and saints adore,
To visit this sad earth!
And may it disembodied, ever come
209
A reappearance of that kindest eye,
Or of that smoothest cheek or sweetest voice,—
But can she see my tears, when I, alone,
Weep by her grave? and may she leave the throng
Where angels minister and saints adore,
To visit this sad earth!
When, as the nights
Of fireside winter gather chilly round,
I kiss our little child, and lay me down
Upon a widowed pillow, doth she leave
Those glorious, holy, heavenly essences,
Those sacred perfumes round the throne on high,
To keep a watch on me? and upon ours?
—Her I did love, and I was loved again,—
And had it been my mortal lot, instead,
I would, were I accepted, ask my God,
For one more look upon my wife and child.
Of fireside winter gather chilly round,
I kiss our little child, and lay me down
Upon a widowed pillow, doth she leave
Those glorious, holy, heavenly essences,
Those sacred perfumes round the throne on high,
To keep a watch on me? and upon ours?
—Her I did love, and I was loved again,—
And had it been my mortal lot, instead,
I would, were I accepted, ask my God,
For one more look upon my wife and child.
| The poems of John G. C. Brainard | |